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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27307774">light me up from the inside</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish'>louciferish</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Scare Me [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Vampire, DJ Otabek Altin, Dancing, Ghost Mila Babicheva, M/M, OtaYuri Week, Vampire Yuri Plisetsky, YOI Spooky Week, brief sort of Yuri/OFC, but only because he wants to bite her, idiot baby vampire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:35:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27307774</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Just leave already!” Yuri doesn’t jump. He’s way too smooth for that. But he does still wrinkle his nose a bit at the sight of Mila’s mostly-transparent torso sticking out of his living room wall.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Shut up,” he snaps at her. “You don’t even know what’s going on.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“I know everything.” Mila reaches out as if to prod Yuri in the chest, but her finger sinks into him. If he were still human, the cold shock of it could be fatal. Instead, it only makes him shiver. “This is still my house, you little squatter. I know all, see all.”</i>
</p><p>-</p><p>In which Vampire!Yuri makes bad decisions and takes Otabek up on that invitation to go clubbing after all.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Scare Me [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985444</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>light me up from the inside</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Absolutely unbeta'd and honestly minimally edited. My creative interpretation of grammar may run rampant in the dance scenes. You've been warned.</p><p>Title again from "Scare Me" by Ludo</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following weekend finds Yuri in his living room, once more holding Otabek’s business card with both hands. He paces, flipping the card between his fingers as he walks. From her perch high atop an overpriced cat tree, Potya stares down her black nose at him.</p><p>“What are you looking at?” Yuri mutters at her. “This is all your fault, anyway.”</p><p>Potya blinks slowly, then stretches out her chocolate-colored feet, claws splayed. The hardwood floor echoes with each of Yuri’s steps, thick soles on his black leather boots striking with a resounding <i>thud</i>. He hadn’t consciously decided if he’d go to Otabek’s gig or not when he got up this evening, but he’d found himself reaching to the back of his closet anyway, dusting off his heavy boots, the slim red jeans he always used to wear dancing, a black tank top marked with a gleaming silver X. </p><p>He wants to go. He can admit that to himself, at least, though he’d deny it if anyone else asked. He always loved dancing, but he hasn’t been in the years since he was bitten. </p><p><i>There’s a reason for that,</i> he reminds himself. The words ring hollow even when he’s the one saying them. Yuri knows the logic, understands it -- it isn’t safe for a vampire, especially one as relatively young as he is, to be out in such an unguarded crowd of vulnerable humans. He doesn’t have the experience, the control to be trusted to keep his head in that situation. </p><p>He <i>could</i> ask Victor or Yuuri for advice on how they manage it. He knows those fuckers go out all the time without him, but he already knows what they’ll say: <i>safety</i> blah blah blah <i>careful</i> something something <i>temptation</i>... whatever. They’ve told him all of it before. If he asks again, they might be annoyed with him -- or worse, disappointed. He can’t handle seeing Victor’s theatrical pout again this week. That shit is the worst.</p><p>But… he really wants to go dancing. </p><p>“Just leave already!” Yuri doesn’t jump. He’s way too smooth for that. But he <i>does</i> still wrinkle his nose a bit at the sight of Mila’s mostly-transparent torso sticking out of his living room wall.</p><p>“Shut up,” he snaps at her. “You don’t even know what’s going on.”</p><p>“I know everything.” Mila reaches out as if to prod Yuri in the chest, but her finger sinks into him. If he were still human, the cold shock of it could be fatal. Instead, it only makes him shiver. “This is still my house, you little squatter. I know all, see all.”</p><p>Mila wriggles her fingers and steps forward, finally emerging from the wall. She’s more transparent than usual today, her fiery red hair merely pinkish in the lamplight, but she’s gone to the extent of manifesting not only legs, but feet. That’s different. No shoes, though.</p><p>When Yuri had first moved in, he’d known Mila only as a name on some misplaced mail. He’d thought nothing of the fact that a home so suited to his needs was also on sale so cheap. He didn’t know enough about real estate to wonder what the catch was -- at least, not until the first time Mila popped through the wall downstairs and yelled at him to, <i>Turn down that stupid music. Can’t a woman rest in peace around here?</i></p><p>Now, Yuri’s comfortable enough with Mila’s occasional presence in his home that most of her habits and tricks don’t phase him. She’s clearly here to stay, and so is he.</p><p>He’s really hoping that “I know all, see all” business is a lie, though.</p><p>Mila gives him a once over, starting from his boots and working her way up. When she reaches his hair, braided back behind each subtly pointed ear, she smirks. “You’re not going to go.”</p><p>“What? A minute ago you practically ordered me to leave!”</p><p>“Yeah, but you’re not going to.” Mila’s eyebrows snap into full focus long enough for her to wiggle them. “You don’t have the guts to step outside looking like that.”</p><p>Yuri’s green eyes narrow. It’s the last straw. “<i>Watch me</i>,” he hisses, snatching his coat from the rack and throwing wide the door. The way it slams behind him has more to do with weight and wind than anything else, but the sound is still deeply satisfying.</p><p>-</p><p>It’s just past midnight by the time Yuri reaches the club listed on the back of Otabek’s card. The neon pink sign above the door proclaims it <i>Paradise</i>, and beneath the word in gold is a shapeless gold lump -- something like an angel, but not.</p><p>A line stretches out behind a red velvet rope and beyond, probably twenty people deep. Through the doorway, past the bouncer’s wide shoulders, Yuri can see flashing lights. The music spilling out into the street has a few of the humans in line bouncing on their toes, nodding along, about to start an impromptu dance of their own on the city sidewalk. </p><p>Yuri passes them all and walks directly to the bouncer. Passing the man his ID, Yuri says, “I’m on the list.” </p><p>He’s not on the list, but this is his favorite of his new abilities to play with -- compulsion, or the more acceptable form, suggestion. He waits for the bouncer to pull up the list on his phone, readying the words <i>check again</i> with a flavor of <i>you see it now</i> on his tongue.</p><p>Instead, the bouncer nods. “Yuri. You’re on the DJ’s list, but there’s no drink tickets tonight.”</p><p>Huh. He actually <i>is</i> on the list. “No drink tickets is fine.” It’s not as if he could use them anyway.</p><p>The bouncer holds Yuri’s ID up to light, squinting at the tiny photo, then peering at Yuri’s face. Yuri takes a step back, casting himself in shadow, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his long coat. It’s still his real ID, with his real birthdate printed on it. In another few years, he’ll hit a point where he can no longer sell the “I look young for my age” excuse without using his powers of suggestion. But that time hasn’t come quite yet, and with a shrug of acceptance the bouncer hands back the ID and steps aside to let Yuri walk through. </p><p>His first step over the threshold is an assault. The air inside is stale with old smoke and sharp with sweat and spilled, sour-sweet-firey liquor. Lights flash overhead flooding the room with pink, blue, gold, and the floor beneath him trembles at the driving, relentless beat of sound. Yuri is surrounded by a hundred voices, heartbeats, scents, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to draw back and retreat into the alley again. </p><p>The recessed dance floor is packed, primed with bodies and the thrumming heat of them, and Yuri knows he can't handle that space -- not yet. He stumbles to the right, over to the long cool line of a stainless steel bar top, and wedges himself between two sad, oblivious drunks. When the bartender spots him and steps closer, Yuri mouths the word water and pretends not to notice her disappointed expression. It's not as if she has anything else he can drink on tap.</p><p>When the plastic cup slides Yuri’s way, it’s more ice than liquid, but he wraps his hand around it anyway and lets the chill sink into his palm. It’s far enough below his ambient body temperature to pull his attention, distracting him ever so slightly from the sounds, smells, and flashing lights around him. Through the pattern of stuttering strobes, he can see the DJ booth perched up high, beyond the sunken dance floor filled with writhing bodies. Otabek is there, downcast eyes fixated on the laptop screen ahead of him, fingers flitting over the keys and mouse as he queues up new selections, oblivious to the very audience he’s there to entertain. Yuri hadn’t been sure what to expect, seeing Otabek here for the first time, but “DJ Beks” doesn’t look any different from Otabek-his-neighbor aside from opting for well-fitted jeans and a t-shirt instead of faded pajama pants.  </p><p>His focus on the laptop is absolute and admirable. Most modern DJs Yuri has seen are nothing but a glorified playlist -- everything planned in advance, executed with one finger on the play button, then ignored until the last song ends. Otabek, however, is part of the music, nodding his head along to the beat, constantly navigating through the selection on his screen and adjusting as the room in the mood shifts.</p><p>Yuri lets his eyes fall closed and sorts through his senses, pushing the cacophony of voices and scents aside to hone his own focus on the music, the melody threaded through in submission to the beat. The songs transition, and the change is so small it would be imperceptible to human ears. Otabek’s blended his choices well. </p><p>The songs themselves are good, too. Thanks to the internet, Yuri can always stay on top of what’s popular in terms of music, but club songs aren’t his usual choice when he’s home on his own. There’s a mixture in Otabek’s playlist of both the familiar and the new, and Yuri finds himself nodding along, tapping his fingers through the condensation dripping from his water glass. Beka has good taste.</p><p>Between the music and the cup sweating in his palm, Yuri’s overactive senses calm, drifting back to something more like human. He finishes the tiny water in two quick gulps, then tosses the empty into a trash can behind the bar. The song transitions, fluid, to a new one, and Yuri takes that as his cue. He hops from the stool and leaves the bar and his coat behind, hips already swaying as he stalks over to the dance floor.</p><p>Where flashing lights have missed, the recessed floor is dim and shadowed, packed with bodies. It’s unlikely any of the humans can see each other well, and that’s probably for the best. As Yuri steps closer, he can smell a dozen colognes at war with sweat, body odor, and the faint fragrance of melting makeup. He pushes that clamor aside as he steps down onto the main floor. </p><p>People move aside as Yuri passes, the bubble of his influence urging them away, or perhaps it’s just instinct -- some deep genetic memory that screams <i>danger, predator</i> on a level no one can hear. The tide of humanity parts for him, and Yuri pushes onward until he’s near the front of the floor, centered in front of the elevated booth.</p><p>The lights pulse again, pink and yellow, and Otabek glances up from his laptop. His eyes flash gold in the rainbow swirl of light around them, and when his gaze meets Yuri’s, he smiles. There’s a beat of acknowledgement, a pleased nod from each of them, and then the contact breaks. Beka’s attention is back to the laptop, and Yuri’s returns to the music. </p><p>He dances. The beat is impossible to miss, pouring from the speakers all around and vibrating through the walls. It hums through Yuri’s veins like an echo of his old heartbeat, and he feels it rise from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers. He closes his eyes and falls back into it. </p><p>This used to be his life. Since before he’d turned eighteen, as soon as he could find a cheap fake ID, Yuri had thrived among the strange creatures and inhuman schedules of the clubs. During the week, he’d had school, tutoring, ballet training. On the weekends, he’d climbed out the window in his bedroom each night as midnight struck, and he’d lived like <i>this</i>.</p><p>It got him in trouble, eventually, though not in any way he’d expected.</p><p>As Yuri dances, letting himself float away in the rhythm of the song and the bodies around him, his sphere of influence lessens, and the crowd floods back to fill the gaps around him. Head back, arms overhead, Yuri feels the strangers press in on all sides. Hot skin, slick with sweat, grazes Yuri’s back, his shoulders, the gap where his shirt rides up over low slung jeans when he twists and bends. He’s surrounded, embraced. No one appears to notice if Yuri is cool the touch among them, if he doesn’t sweat. He’s warmer than he’s been in years now, held tight by a dozen different bodies, sharing their heat, their touch, their pulse. </p><p>It’s <i>home</i> -- a taste of something magical Yuri wasn’t certain he’d ever have again. It’s like rediscovering a favorite childhood treat he’d thought discontinued. The thrum of the music around him binds them all together, until Yuri is no longer alone in the crowd, but part of a larger creature, a whole.</p><p>He can’t pinpoint the moment it all turns on its head again. It could have been a touch that set him off, or a look from a pair of glitter-lined eyes, or just a random cosmic roll of the dice, but Yuri dances through song after song feeling settled into comfort, joy, peace, and then -- not.</p><p>A thousand smells war for his attention. The sour, musky sweat of dozens of humans, hot and pulsating at his fingertips, the cacophony of music over a hundred warring voices, whispers as loud to Yuri’s preternatural ears as the boom of the nearby speaker. The room swirls with bodies, heartbeats, moans, cries, perfumes, spilled drinks, <i>blood</i>.</p><p>Yuri stumbles, and unfamiliar hands catch at his arms, the feel of foreign fingers prickling up his spine. A girl -- dark hair, blue eyes, flushed cheeks -- presses into Yuri’s side. She looks dazed, her pupils dilated with drink or drugs, or maybe just Yuri. He touches the curve of her waist, and she lists closer to him. Her arm is warm across his back, fingers on his shoulder. She’s pressed so close to his side that there’s no room for air, hot flesh unyielding against him. </p><p>He leans in. Her hair smells like coconut and hibiscus. She’d dotted her neck with spiced perfumes before coming out tonight, and Yuri can still smell that, rising off her in wavelets under the overwhelming human stench. Beneath her pale skin, Yuri can see the blue web of veins that maps the base of her throat, so close to the surface. He buries his face in her hair and feels the air leave her in a sigh. Her breath smells like vodka and spun sugar.</p><p>Abruptly, the song changes. Yuri notices it, a more jarring transition than the ones before it, and that notice is enough to pull him back. The fog os his senses clears enough that he can make out the shape of his memory. He’s in public, in a club. The girl in his arms is a stranger. A stranger who has no idea of the horror she’s cozying up to.</p><p>Yuri drops her, sudden enough that she stumbles back. He flees, outrunning the instinct still trying to capture him. The dancers sway and grind toward him, and Yuri shoves them away. It’s nothing like before. He’s in the thick of it now, no bubble of influence, only his own useless hands slapping at the invading touches as he swims through bodies to the edge of the dance floor. The toe of his boot bumps up against the step, and he reaches up for a railing, pulling himself up, free of the sucking tide of humanity.</p><p>It must be five degrees cooler out here, away from the crowd. Yuri braces himself on the nearest table, gripping the edge with both hands. He sucks cool air he doesn’t need through his teeth and tries to count down from ten, hoping the beat of other hearts in his eardrums will fade. He can’t tell which <i>thumps</i> are from the bass anymore. </p><p>“Hey, what happened?” It’s the girl from the dance floor. In the sporadic, colored lighting, her hair is a mass of frizzy curls, shorter strands reaching for the ceiling and a few longer bangs plastered to her forehead. Her mascara has run, shadowing her pale blue eyes with grey. “Why’d you run off?” </p><p>Before Yuri can say anything to her, she steps closer, and the scent of her crashes over him in a wave again. She’s got a finger to her lips, gnawing at the jagged cuticle, and it’s already bleeding. Yuri can almost taste it, that burst of metal in the air. He grips the table harder, resisting the images flashing through his brain -- <i>take her, take her outside, take her apart, piece by piece.</i></p><p>“Yuri.” The girl looks away before Yuri does. It helps, breaking the eye contact. It helps more when he turns and puts that voice to a familiar figure. “I’m glad you made it.” Otabek steps in, and Yuri watches, bemused, as he cuts the girl off with his body -- not shoving her aside, but crowding her out, using the breadth of his shoulders to make a space for himself between her and Yuri.</p><p>She doesn’t take the hint. “Excuse me!” Her hand is on Otabek’s arm, red-painted nails curved around his jacket, and Yuri feels a growl building in his throat.</p><p>“Your friends are looking for you,” Otabek says, not bothering to turn and face her. “They’re by the bar.” The girl hesitates, hand lingering <i>too long</i>, but then she withdraws, steps back, and finally leaves them entirely. </p><p>“Here.” There’s another flimsy plastic cup in Otabek’s hand, and he puts it on the table in front of Yuri. “You look like you need this more than me.”</p><p>“Thanks, but…” Yuri’s eyes slide to the now empty DJ booth, the oblivious crowd dancing on beneath it.</p><p>“I was due for a break.” Beka shrugs, and Yuri finally releases the table long enough to accept the water. He throws it back and closes his eyes as the icy liquid floods through his chest. He can’t tell if Beka is lying about the break, but he’s not going to press it. If Otabek hadn’t stepped in with that girl…</p><p>Beka points with a thumb toward the front door. “Want to step outside?” Despite the water sloshing around his guts, Yuri’s throat is too dry to speak. He nods.</p><p>The bouncer grunts hello to Otabek as they step past him, but his narrow eyes slide over Yuri as if he weren’t there. It’s probably meant to be a form of discretion, but the look conspires with the riot of Yuri’s senses to make him feel as if he’s not quite there. If a stiff wind hit him, Yuri might blow away, as solid as paper, as transparent as Mila.</p><p>It’s cold out, and Yuri’s coat is still over by the bar, but cold doesn’t bother him much these days. The coat was more about fashion than function. Still, the contrast between the throbbing heat of the club and this bone-chilling breeze makes Yuri wrap his arms around himself, as if he has any heat to hold in. A few steps from the door, Otabek leans back against the wall, and Yuri drops beside him, a safe distance apart.   </p><p>For a long time, there are no words. They lean against the wall, and Yuri stares across the street at another club, its sign flashing in neon green, yellow, and orange. He inhales deeply through his nose and smells gasoline, car exhaust, crushed grass, the heavy sharpness of an oncoming snow. The sounds and scents of the night wash over him, and it cleanses out all the strangeness from the dance floor until Yuri is merely himself again -- a guy, standing outside a club, like any other. </p><p>“Feeling better?” Otabek asks, and Yuri nods. </p><p>“I haven’t been dancing like that in a while. It’s a… medical thing.” He shoots a glance in Beka’s direction, but the man has the good manners to not look curious. “I thought it would be safe now.” </p><p>“Sorry. I didn’t know when I invited you--”</p><p>“You wouldn’t have,” Yuri says, cutting him off. “Besides, I wanted to come.”</p><p>Beka nods and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Will you come back inside? I still have a few minutes of break left, if you wanted to dance.”</p><p>Yuri very much wants to try that. Maybe it would be different, if he had someone familiar to ground him. Maybe he could get a few minutes more to pretend everything was normal and he was nineteen --actually nineteen -- again. Maybe he’d lose his damn mind again and rip Otabek apart in the middle of a crowded dance floor. </p><p>His empty stomach clenches. “Better not,” he mutters, looking away, down the street. He scowls, hating this. The worst part isn’t that he lost control or that he put everyone in there in danger. No, the worst part is that he’s proving Victor and Mila right by leaving. He’s still too young. He can’t handle it.</p><p>“No big deal.” Otabek is so chill. Yuri thinks that might get frustrating if they were around each other long enough, but right now, in a crisis? It’s exactly what he needs. “Do you want me to flag down a taxi?”</p><p>“I can walk.” It’s not a short walk, but that’s the point. Even now that his senses have calmed, there’s still a twinge of hunger in Yuri’s gut. He doesn’t normally eat free range food, but his fridge is empty until Yakov makes another delivery, and walking means he might be able to pop into an alley on the way home for a bite. He reaches for his keys, then remembers he left them in his trench. “Shit. Could you grab my coat? I left it on the bar--”</p><p>“Yeah, of course.” The bouncer steps aside to let Otabek through, and he’s back a minute later, Yuri’s coat draped over his arm. He shakes it out once, snapping in the wind, then holds it up. It’s takes far too long for Yuri to realize he’s trying to help Yuri put it on. It’s a small thing, but the last time someone did that for him… It was probably his grandfather. It’s been decades, but Yuri’s chest still aches.</p><p>He’s grateful that shrugging into the coat puts his back to Beka, so he doesn’t have to see the man’s face when he says, “If you ever get off a gig and want to hang out a bit, I’m usually up. Just knock on the door or the wall or something to let me know you’re coming over.”</p><p>The coat settles onto Yuri’s shoulders, and he folds it around himself, skipping the buttons and tying the belt. Beka isn’t saying anything, so Yuri has to look. There’s a strange little frown on his face, creasing the space between his eyebrows and quirking his lips.</p><p><i>Did I say something wrong?</i> Yuri wonders. Whatever it is, Otabek shakes it off at Yuri’s inquisitive look.</p><p>“Okay. Is knocking better than texting?”</p><p><i>Oh, right.</i> He’d forgotten phones were a thing for a minute there. “Yeah. I don’t always have my phone on me,” Yuri lies. </p><p>“Knocking it is, then,” Beka says. He sticks his hand out, and Yuri takes it. If his hand feels bitterly cold wrapped in Otabek’s warm fingers, he can blame the weather and the wind. </p><p>The touch only lasts for a second, and then Yuri pulls back, plunging both his hands into his coat pockets. “See you later.” It sounds more like a promise than he expected. Otabek nods, and Yuri turns to begin his slow, hungry walk back home.</p>
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